It was a bright winter morning. I walked on 11th Avenue towards 36th Street, along the construction-site fences, the uncleared sidewalks still covered with snow.

I even saw a tiny bird enthusiastically twittering on top of a blasting signal orange panel.

I thought he was announcing spring, in advance of his kind.

I had never been in this part of the city, and the small industrial buildings, the repair garages, the newly built high-rise condo against the Hell’s Kitchen backdrop in the distance, and the wide-open spaces reminded me of some verses from Apollinaire’s poem Zone.

J’ai vu ce matin une jolie rue dont j’ai oublié le nom

Neuve et propre du soleil elle était le clairon

….

Les inscriptions des enseignes et des murailles

Les plaques les avis à la façon des perroquets criaillent

J’aime la grâce de cette rue industrielle

Hosfelt Gallery — on the second floor of an automotive parts and car repair shop — is a beautiful, luminous space, with a pure, natural light that seemed the perfect translation of Maria’s spirit.